I'm Seeing Colors

God blessed us Sunday morning. I had expected a hot day, sitting in the newly-painted church building sweating like a gladiator, trying to pretend to pay attention to a slowly-preached sermon so the people could understand. But, when Bumper took the pulpit to preach the sermon, the rain came hard. For the first few minutes his voice was drowned by the dripping droplets of the dampening rain. The rain slowed down, and eventually stopped. Bumper's voice could be heard, and God's through him. Speaking slowly, Bumper explained to the congregation that God essentially wants to marry us. The relationship God desires is a relationship of purity, love, and overflowing compassion. Christ has prepared a place for us. In His Father's house. In Heaven.

The unity in Christ that bonds us together is truly amazing. Sunday morning showed me that.

When the service was completed we were served lunch by some of the women in the congregation: the eternally familiar rice with dried fish and beef. After the meal we were forced to say goodbye to David and his splendid wife Deborah. At this point in my journey I felt something, but it wasn't the poverty or the pain or the hopelessness that spurred this emotion on, it was the feeling of loss as I waved meaningful relationships away (hopefully this was only a temporary goodbye, because I would much like to return to Africa and get messed up again). I sat in the van, after signing my phone number away to at least 20 kids, and played peak-a-boo with the beautiful children. Our driver, Jimmy this time, entered the car. We shoved off from Makurdi, desperate to maintain the Christ-bonded relationships with David and Debby.

Time flew, as it does so rudely, and we rolled into the hostel before I could gather my thoughts. We showered and went to the Fretheim's house for dinner.

I felt surprised that day. I had been in Nigeria for a week and practically fel nothing. But then, upon departure of Makurdi, I was (slightly) overtkaken with sadness (only for a short while). Even as I sit in the coffee shop now I look back on those three days with intense nostalgia.

People have frequently asked, since I have been in the states, what was my favorite part of Nigeria, and when I don't give an answer to shun the conversation away, I tell them that the three days in Makurdi blessed me the most, three days of sweat, scarce electricity, and no running water. I was forced to enter a realm that far outskirted my comfort zone, a realm of mystery and insight into a life so foreign to me, an existence without decadent side-dishes like video games, facebooks, and air-conditioning. My eyes caught a glimpse of the majority, the lense of poverty, the lense of the hard life. I complain about work. I complain about my car. I complain about my iPod. On top of that I don't give thanks nearly enough for the many material blessings I have. The Nigerian Christians we encountered were the complete and utter paradox of this American life: they lacked everything, but never complained. They had nothing, but gave thanks for everything.

Most people hate Mondays, as they should (I include myself in most people here). Mondays in Nigeria didn't seem so different. I was slightly bitter about having to leave Makurdi, because my heart rejoiced in the bonds forged there, and my mind revelled in the maturity it felt. My sour attitude might have permeated that Monday morning, but as is the case for most things, the anticipation of a let-down Monday was far worse than the actual Monday. In fact, this Monday proved to be one of the best days of my adventure.

The events of the morning didn't exactly foreshadow the bright day of joy which unexpectedly lay ahead: while we were gone a few members of our group were confronted by immigration officers and, because this had never happened, our group was ill-prepared and didn't have their passports. Consequently, the office of immigrations requested (commanded) us to visit them with our passports on Monday morning. So we did. When asked where our passsports had been made, I whispered to Bumper that I had received mine from a Target (he didn't find this funny at all). After about an hour of questioning and checking papers the office let us go and we returned to the hostel for a short rest and preparation for the day.

Our first visit was EMS, a school for the local Nigerian staff member's kids. Because this was a school for Christian kids (well-behaved, Christian kids), our ministry was slightly different. I think the children ministered to us more than we did to them.

An hour or so into the fun I found myself in a crowded room of vivacious colors: the children had prepared an assortment of entertainment for our group: songs, dramas and dances. I sat in a white lawn chair to the side of the performaces, near the corner of the room.

"I'm seeing colors."

A scribbled phrase in a leather journal crafted into words the affections of my heart.

After the painting of children we visited the Transition House, a place for boys from junior high to high school to get educated, both spiritually and intelectually. I saw colors and now I felt God. Music, like God, can unify people, breaking barriers of language and race, nationality and culture. Shortly upon our arrival I engaged a young man named Timothy in conversation, and soon found him to be an amazingly faithful servant of God:

Timothy did not know how old he was. When his mother became pregnant his father, because of anger, left her. Two months after giving birth to her son, Timothy's mother left him with his maternal grandmother. After six years of poverty with his grandmother, Timothy was forced to the streets when she passed away. The streets became his home, and days rolled into months, years. Time lost itself. At some point on the streets Timothy was thrown into jail. Two years in jail for a boy younger than 16, because he had. no. family. No bail was put forth. When his sentence was served Timothy found his way to Transition House, and now aspires to be a worship pastor.

After a game of basketball Timothy fetched his guitar to lead the Transition House in worship through music. During our conversation I somehow spilled to Timothy that I played the djembe. My eyes sparkled a few minutes after the basketball when I was asked to play percussion for American songs Timothy would lead us in. As I sat, pounding the drum, beating my hands to numbness, my heart felt the fingers of God. I looked with confidence into Timothy's face, playing the guitar and shutting his eyes, allowing the Holy Spirit to manifest itself through song.

God uses music in my life, and in everyone's life, to sway the heart.

Daylight Fading

The next morning began the day of June 7th, and the dynamic trio was still in the hot, humid city of Makurdi. After a night of unrest we were awakened to start our long day of painting the interior of a new church building. Grace (Ritmwa) fixed us fruit and bread with jam for breakfast and we slowly woke to the will of God.



When we arrived at the church we were quite taken with the building. Air conditioning is a ridiculos thought, so get it out of your head. The plot of land was large and the church existed on the land with several other buildings: a school, a house for the pastor, and a house for the groundsman (more of a hut). The land had a gradual slope upwards so that the back of the plot was higher than the front. The inside of the church was plain: one big room (sanctuary) with two rooms at the front, right and left of the stage. The ground was worn cement, and would stay that way. We painted the interior walls with white plaster, and we painted the bars behind the windows black.



After about 30 minutes of painting or so the Bad Boyz soccer team arrived and helped us paint. The job was done quicker but a litle sloppier (not that great of a paint job according to America's illustrious, kingly, extravagent standards) thanks to the 20 or so Bad Boyz who showed up.



When enough had been painted for the day we went back to Gidan Bege to wash off and get ready for the night of evangelism that lie ahead of us. The second two nights at Makurdi were set up to where an outside movie showing would be put on by the Nigerian staff, free of charge. The Nigerian man who was leading the church at that time asked an 18-year-old kid from America to say a few words to the 150 or so people who had gathered there for the move.



The kid, a boy, rose from his chair after the movie and timidly shuffled to the man holding the microphone. He awkwardly walked towards a clearing in between the crowd and the screen, holding the microphone too close to his mouth, so that screeching feedback could be heard from the speakers. He cleared his throat and began talking. The message the boy delivered was honest and sincere, but a weakness penetrated his tone. Due to the humbling circumstances of being in the midst of such joy despite pain, he felt as if nothing he could say could possibly influence these people. I began shaking as I felt the cold metal of the microphone in between my palm and my fingers. I have never been an amzing public speaker, but I am not afraid or dismayed by large crowds. But God is big, He was big and He was looking at me from that crowd. What do I say to God and a group of Nigerian people who, against all odds, find joy in life? How can I possibly communicate anything but pure encouragement to them? So that is what I tried to do, and I'm not sure how well it went. Now, if I had been asked to write a letter to the Nigerians, I would have been falling because of confidence.



I know it seems repetitive and dull, and perhaps a bit whiny, but I still couldn't feel. I could not put together the situation: the poverty throttled so many aspects of hope, and I didn't seem to be affected.



The next day followed a similar pattern: painting until the early afternoon and then a movie showing. After we finished painting Audra and Cici came down from Jos and we were to have a special celebration with the 24 boys from Gidan Bege. Our American group purchased minerals (cokes, sodas, pops) for the boys as a treat and Deborah prepared a large dinner of rice and chicken for the 40 or so people that were gathered for the celebration. We returned from the church as the dinner was being prepared, so we washed off as soon as we got back (pouring buckets of water repeatedly on ourselves in the shower). When I escaped the shower I wandered to the opposite half of the compound, the orphan's half. I walked into a scene from Heaven: the boys (ages 6-17) and a few of the adults were dancing in a circle and singing songs of praise to our awesome, awesome Creator.

When my jaw returned to it's closed position I trotted back to the other side to get my camera. I snapped picture after picture of this amazing sight, trying to grasp a moment of joy and take it home, which turned out to be impossible. I sat down on a bench and put the camera down, watching the beautiful children and sitting in awe of my Lord, and the capabilities He has to transform normalities into Heavenly parades. I beamed with joy.

It was saturday, and after the dinner we went to the church for the movie production. When the movie reeled to a close Papa spoke inspiring words to the crowd and I saw the unity Christ can accomplish. The next morning was Sunday, and Bumper wass set up to preach.

"But I still haven't found what I'm looking for." Bono is one of inspirations, to the point that I own his 170$ Armani (RED) sunglasses. Extravagence, I know. Despite the joy I began to feel those days in Makurdi I still hadn't found what I was looking for. I didn't want joy, I wanted to break down. I wanted to cry. I wanted to ask God why and I wanted to take a sad song and make it better. But God wasn't letting me get emotional.

Another struggle that began to surface on the trip and hasn't lost it's poignancy is the issue of reality: what is real and what isn't. If you've seen the move The Truman Show that is exactly what I am talking about, and this if this sounds ridiculous in a few sentences it's because you haven't been to Africa. But, especially after Blind Town, I began to struggle with this. As I sit in this wonderful, air-conditioned coffee shop listening to the Beatles I struggle to believe in the existence of the Leper Chief and his wife. I honestly struggle to believe that are alive, festering in the cement rectangle with nothing to live for. No fingers. No toes. Daylight fading. Speech slurring. I do not know if they exist. I can't put it together. My mind cannot wrap itself around the fragments of pain, suffering, loss, and desperation. It can't piece the puzzle of reality. I am Truman, and the Leper Chief is another man in a cast revolving around my pathetic existence, and his wife played a great supporting role. Bravo, bravo. Where are the credits? I need to know that God is there. I need to know that man won't burn in hell for nothing. I need to know whether or not that man and his wife exist. I need to know that the point isn't me. I need someone to tell me that God loves people and that the hopelessness is just a bad dream I had. Because how can I sit here and do nothing. Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing nothingnotnjhg nohtihnig nothingnothing notnghing nothingnotjgh g nothing notningnothingnothjikngnojt ng nothikngont kh nothing jothjign nothing nonthging.

If you cut below the surface of any American that are just as torn and tattered. But that man, that chief, has no hope. He has no hope. No hope. Hope.

5-Gallon Bucket

The next morning I was able to travel to a different state in Nigeria with Bumper and Papa. The place had been described as a living hell: we were told that, in order to sleep, we would need to soak ourselves (or maybe only our shirts) in water, because of the heat. No running water. Electricity . . . not the first night. I expected our visit to Makurdi to bring out the emotion in me, because I knew it would be exclusive to the smaller group of three and we would be able to build relationships much easier.



The drive South from Jos to Makurdi was four or five hours. Our van did not have air conditioning. The landscape, as always in Africa, was riveting. It captured my attention to the point of no iPod, which, for me, is saying something because I have a deep relationship with the Counting Crows.



We arrived at the Gidan Bege of Makurdi and met David and Deborah, the caretakers of the place. David explained to us that he had 24 boys living at the orphanage, and also several widows. The compound was divided into two sections: one for David and his wife and the other for the boys and widows. A wall divided the two sections so that one had to exit the compound in order to get to the other side and, as I mentioned earlier, there was no running water, only a well. The well was on the side of David and Deborah. Consequently, the orphan boys had to walk (with their 5-gallon bucket) around and out of the compound, then back in to get the water. Then, after the bucket (5-gallon bucket) was filled with water, they walked back. To get water. When I want water I put my face under the sink. Less than 15 steps from my bed. In the air-conditioned room. With the electricity. Oh, and I don't have to boil my water to make it safe for my body either. Rick, the guy who told us to pour water on our shirts, said there was a portion of the dividing wall that could be knocked down easily to help the boys with their arduous hike for......drinking.......................water. For drinking water. Their h i k e, for dddddddrinking water. So they don't die of dehydration. We knocked down the wall.

The boy with the broom is Danny, the best sweeper in Nigeria. And the opening with the plant and bricks on the ground is the would-be wall we destroyed. The boys appreciated our help and we felt glad that we could do something simple to help a lot.

After we tore down the wall we visited a soccer scrimmage. After the practice each of us, myself, Bumper, and Papa, said a few words to the team. Every time I was asked to say a few words for a group I tried to relay the same message: even though people in America have a bunch of stuff, they aren't happy. People in Nigeria smile much easier than Americans, and that is a fact. So, my Nigerian brethren, I applaud you for joy in the midst of pain, and I pray that my fellow Americans will learn to learn. After our messages to the team Bumper and I pulled out our cameras and passed them back and forth pretending to be movie stars (they thought we were). It was humbling.

The literal journey of the day seemed simple and good: we had helped orphan boys and spoken to amazing soccer players. But the trip hadn't amounted to my expectations, and I was beginning to be bothered by this fact. Why wasn't I feeling? Why wasn't my heart broken? I remember writing, later on in the journey, in the margins of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises: "Why isn't my heart breaking? Why isn't my heart breaking? Why isn't my heart breaking?"

Like the WWI generation of The Sun Also Rises I felt lost. I had no direction or hints from God pointing me to the answers I sought. I still wasn't feeling the pain and I didn't feel any closer to God after helping the boys. Why wasn't my heart breaking? Where am I supposed to be? Where is my direction? Where does destiny have me? What am I supposed to be?

Hemingway's character Robert Cohn feels the same way: "Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it?"

Natural Novacaine

Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness reveals Africa to be a land of adventure, loss, and conflicting cultures. It was. The bleak end of the Heart of Darkness suggests the ultimate evil of all human beings: both the imperialists and the natives maintain an existence of perpetual selfishness and corruption.

As I boarded the British Airways flight from London towards Abuja I expected several things: an emotional thunderstorm, a progression towards God, and divine inspiration. I expected these things because my experience suggested this would happen. The summer before my junior year I participated in a mission trip to Monterrrey, Mexico, and the city exposed me to poverty unlike anything I had ever seen in person. The rich elite left the lower class festering in a pit of filth and a state of joblessness. But, despite the culture shock, I was able to contain myself and control my feelings. I was able to feel. The music and evangelism and fellowship made me feel closer to Christ. It brought me closer to God. The adventure in Mexico exceeded feeling into an obvious progression of faith and relationship.

Africa would be the same, right? I knew the pverty would be worse than Mexico but it couldn't be THAT much worse. And besides, I was 18 now. I was becoming a man. I was closer to God than two years ago. I had things under control. Right?

The first day of ministry saw several activites come and pass. The first thing we did was visit a plot of land, purchased in order to construct a building for a women's ministry, for widows. The landscape revealed a concoction of jungles, mountains, and deserts. And the fading, single coat of paint on the blue building foreshadowed something greater. As we waltzed towards the land, confident in our own ability to conquer the Heart of Darkness I was called by four men to photograph them (the silver block around my neck attracted much attention). I walked towards them and my mind began to build it's blockade. These men were the first Africans I interacted with. Their broken English told me that they wanted to be like me. I don't know why. This came back to haunt me later (Bad Boyz Football).

The leader, dressed in dark pants and a blue striped shirt, beckoned me towards them. I pulled the cover off the lense and snapped the posing men. I looked at the display and then the men. Holes in shorts, pants, and shirts. Obviously no shower in days or weeks. Clothes hadn't been washed either. All the things I had been blessed with and not been thankful for also began to haunt me. We prayed and left.

From the land our driver, Baba, took us to a ministry where four or five Nigerian men build and donate wheelchairs for cripples around the city of Jos. A cripple himself, the leader showed us around the selfless display of Godliness and character. These men truly lived for others. The conviction didn't come like I expected it too. Oh it came-but not in a feeling.

Baba brought us next to Gidan Bege which, in the local dialect, means "House of Hope." As a home for orphan boys and widows, Gidan Bege provides both material and spiritual nourishment for people who otherwise would be deplete of such necessities. The nervous excitement in both the kids and our group suggested a likeness in all humans, and after a short time the excitement overrided the nervousness and a football match erupted in the small, cement, rectangular courtyard. Laughs and smiles seem to come easy to a Nigerian face, and the first day of ministry brought plenty of both.

Our next activity pushed my mind into numbness. Natural novacaine. Blind Town, as they called it, was on the outskirts of town. The funny thing about Blind Town is that, because of the extreme poverty, it shocks some of the local Nigerians as well as (obviously) the spoiled Westerners. The can navigated through the dirt roads and, as we entered the Heart of Dark...Blind Town....children flocked around us like fish around a whale. We got out and the men were able to meet the chief 0f the Lepers. When street kids or lepers came to Blind Town for community they came to this man first, the leader. Bumper, Papa, and I were lead into the clusters of houses, and we were moused through a maze in order to find the chief: his room was a rectangle about the size of a walk-in closet. He had no fingers or toes. He sat on cement floor and flies (the Lord of the Flies mocked me with his work) buzzed around his face. His eyesight was fading. We couldn't understand the mumbling, but we thanked him for letting us meet him. From his room we were led to the room of his wife. She sat on her bed, mumbling, eyesight fading, toes and fingers lacking. The flies buzzed in her room also. Cement floor, and, as you should have guessed, there was no running water or electrity. Oh, and remember, this was the chief and his wife. The chief. We left the palace, frolicked with the children of Blind Town, and were returned to our Crescent Baptist Hostel. To think, ponder, and ask God why.